French Silk(10)

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The hotel suite was overrun with people. Some were merely curious hangers-on; others were sincerely trying to help. All seemed confused by the sudden loss of their leader as they wandered aimlessly through the suite, gathering in small groups and then dispersing, shaking their heads and whispering tearfully as though it were a refrain, "I just can't believe it."

After being questioned by Cassidy, Ariel had been moved out of the San Louis suite. Her present accommodations were smaller and less luxurious. Her privacy was limited. The constant ebb and flow of mourners was maddening. She signaled to Josh, who immediately rushed to her side. After a hushed, brief exchange, he raised his voice in order to get everyone's attention.

"Ariel is exhausted. Could we ask you please to clear the suite now and let her get some rest. If either of us needs anything, we'll notify you."

Wilde's entourage filed out, looking forlorn and abandoned. They cast sympathetic glances at the widow, who was curled in a corner of the sofa, her legs tucked beneath her. Her black dress seemed to be slowly consuming her as though she were melting inside it.

As soon as Josh had closed the door behind the last straggler, Ariel sat up and swung her legs off the couch. "Thank God they're gone. And shut that damn thing off. I don't want to look at her." She pointed to the TV set. The volume had been muted, but the image of a woman trying to avoid a horde of reporters filled the screen.

"Who's she?" Josh asked.

"That French Silk person. A minute ago they had her name superimposed on the screen."

"So that's Claire Laurent," Josh said, standing back to get a better look. "I wondered what she looked like. She doesn't have horns and a pointed tail as Daddy would have had everyone believe. Nor does she look like a scarlet woman. Quite the contrary, I'd say."

"Who cares what you'd say." Ariel marched to the set and shut it off herself.

"Aren't you curious about what Ms. Laurent has to say?" Josh asked.

"Not in the slightest. She'll get hers, but not today. All in good time. Order me something from room service, will you? I'm starving." She disappeared into the next room.

Joshua Wilde, the twenty-eight-year-old son of Jackson Wilde by his first marriage, called room service and ordered a light lunch for his stepmother. He figured a grieving widow shouldn't have too healthy an appetite. For himself he ordered a muffuletta, a New Orleans specialty sandwich for which he had acquired a taste.

While he waited for their order, he moved to the window and gazed down. People on the street were going about their everyday lives as though nothing extraordinary had happened. Hadn't they heard? Jackson Wilde was dead.

Josh hadn't yet assimilated it, although he'd seen the body and the bloodshed. He hadn't really expected the earth to stop turning, but he'd thought something momentous would occur to mark his father's passing. Jackson would never again fill a room with his crackling, parasitical energy, which drained the life force out of everyone else. His voice would never be heard again, whether raised in prayer or laden with malice. Never again would Josh be subjected to one of his father's cold stares, which too frequently conveyed either disappointment or disgust, and always criticism.

Seven years ago, Josh's mother, Martha, had died with as little fanfare as that with which she had lived. Josh received the news that she had died instantly of a stroke while he was in New York, studying music at Juilliard. He never got to say goodbye. Her life had been so inconsequential that her death had barely caused a pause in the well-oiled operation of his father's ministry. When she died, Jackson had been actively expanding his ministry to cable television. He was driven, inexhaustible. Immediately following his wife's funeral, he had returned to his office to get in a few hours' work so that the day wouldn't be entirely wasted.

Josh had never forgiven his father for that particular display of insensitivity. That's why he didn't feel guilty now for the appetite that was making his stomach growl, even though he'd viewed his father's bloody corpse only hours ago.

That's also why he didn't feel guilty about committing adultery with his father's second wife. He reasoned that some sins were justified, although he had no scriptural reference to support that belief.

Ariel was only two years older than Josh, but as she came out of the bedroom dressed in an oversized T-shirt, her long hair held away from her face by barrettes, she looked several years younger than he. Her legs and feet were bare. "Did you order some dessert?"

Jackson always taunted her about her overactive sweet tooth and never let her indulge it without hassling her. "Chocolate layer cake," Josh told her.

"Yummy."

"Ariel?"

"Hmm?"

He waited until she turned to face him. "Only a few hours ago, you discovered your husband's body."

"Are you trying to spoil my appetite?"

"I guess I am. Aren't you the least bit upset?"

Her expression turned sulky and self-defensive. "You know how much I cried earlier."

Josh laughed without humor. "You've been crying on cue ever since that night you came to Daddy with a special prayer request for your little brother after he'd received a life sentence. You wrenched Daddy's heart and sang on his podium at the very next service.

"I've seen you be very effective with your tears. Others might mistake them as genuine, but I know better. You use them when it's convenient or when you want something. Never because you're sad. You're too selfish ever to feel sad. Angry and frustrated and jealous, maybe, but never sad."